06 MAN FROM UNCLE: The Protecting the Past Affair
by Dan Bivens
Summary: Now that the older Illya and Napoleon are in 1964 again, how will they stand up against NEW enemies of freedom not to mention the halfface Darien Driscoll's potential threat to the past? SPECIAL EPILOGUE immediately follows Chapter 5 AS a Chapter 6!
1. Chapter 1

**THE PROTECTING THE PAST AFFAIR**

Chapter 1

"Perhaps if the physician first buys you dinner…?"

"Would you mind explaining this impossible situation again, gentlemen?" asked a significantly shocked, though thoroughly thrilled at the improbable prospect, Alexander Waverly within the bomb-proofed seclusion of his singular U.N.C.L.E. office.

Still staring in palpable puzzlement at two nearly-as-old-as-he-was men from U.N.C.L.E. presently seated in two ultra-modern chairs on the opposite side of his oval oak-and-metal escritoire…

Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin.

"Go ahead, my Russian friend," Napoleon prodded while heaving a very heavy sigh over having already explained such to their owl-like leader. "This is more along your area of expertise than mine."

More than ready to do so, Illya yet again said, "Sir, we are from the future. From 43 years into the future to be more precise. We came back in time to stop a THRUSH chieftain called Darien Driscoll. Perhaps the worst since Andrew Vulcan, whom we now have assumed has been assassinated by Mr. Driscoll at some point prior to his murderously explosive assault that has left our younger selves as dead as a half-dozen others."

"And precisely why again," pressed the prim and proper Briton granted leadership status over the New York **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement, while handling one of two Glocks brought back by the decades older Illya and Napoleon, "did you not opt for the more powerful weapons. What were they again?"

"Ruger P90s, sir," said Napoleon with a knowing nod toward what was being presently examined by the bushy browed Number 1, Section 1. "What you have there turned out to be much lighter to carry and, consequently, constructed in such a way so the 'time-transition', or whatever, into 1964 became much more, uh…"

"Does your return from a future period," curtly cut in Mr. Waverly while letting the subject of selected pistols suddenly drop, "mean that whatever mission affairs the two of you had undertaken before would still be…?"

"No, sir," imperturbably interposed Illya, already having analyzed such just prior to this strange briefing session designed to essentially bring Alexander Waverly up-to-speed. "Since such had initially been 'subjectified', to coin a new word, whereas time-travel has been undertaken by two who originally lived these earlier years, yet are now quite dead…meaning we, the older versions of ourselves, must remain in the past in order to protect as much of the present…your future…from potential permutations that might…"

"What Illya's trying to say, sir," suddenly said Napoleon while rolling his hazel eyes in exasperation of such elaborate explanations, "is that, thanks to 'time-travel magic', everything we would've undertaken and, essentially, 'solved', will remain that way. Which just means we get the 'joy' of an entirely new set of decidedly dangerous outgrowths of THRUSH and the like to undertake. Starting in good ol' 1964."

"Well," heaved Waverly, having already accepted the apparently possible, "that's too bad, gentlemen. It would've been exceedingly easier for you two to take on mission affairs wherein you already knew the ultimate outcome."

"Yes," Napoleon Solo sighed, "guess we're back to square one, sir."

"Yes," agreed Alexander Waverly with a look of controlled concern in his basset hound expression. "Which begs the question regarding your, uh, apparent age. To be entirely truthful with you both…you're really too old to be active agents of U.N.C.L.E. Don't you agree?"

Both Illya and Napoleon looked at one another while stifling a tense sound of derision in respects to such seeming an issue for a second time in their re-activated, in 2007, status as secret agents.

Then…

"Sir," Illya finally replied proudly, "as we've already reported, Napoleon and myself have already successfully seen several mission affairs…mostly against the THRUSH of the 21st Century…to their inevitable ends. Meaning that much of what the 20th Century now holds out…"

"What Illya's still trying to say, sir," insisted a ready-to-proceed as an U.N.C.L.E. agent Napoleon, "is that we've more than proved ourselves in a time and place much more dangerous than this. I can guarantee…as can Illya…that we are ready and able to undertake whatever you've got for us."

Contemplatively pondering the strange situation for several tense minutes, wherein Waverly leaned one well-dressed elbow against one arm of his equally ultra-modern chair, that hand rubbing past partially closed-in-concentration eyes in order to end up pensively stroking his chin…

Causing said over-the-hill and out-of-time U.N.C.L.E. agents to glare worriedly at one another for what appeared to be an eternity of slow-ticking time…

"Very well," finally offered Mr. Waverly while shifting anxiously in his seat, "but on the condition that you both meet with medical for physicals and take your new weapons, 'magnetically endowed' add-ons, and impressively-improved upon pen communicators to Section 8. If you two are to resume men from U.N.C.L.E. duties, we all must be certain of the Who and What to be employed. Understood?"

Though Illya clearly concurred, Napoleon was less-than-accepting of such constrictions, even though he was as automatically compliant with Waverly as was his Russian-born partner, as both at last replied, "Yes, sir, Mr. Waverly."

Even as Waverly allowed the heavy metallic door out of his office to open promptly and fluidly for Illya's and Napoleons departure…

"Just what I wanted at my age," Napoleon bemoaned beneath his breath, loud enough for only Illya to hear, "a God-forsaken physical. I just hope there's no 'rubber glove' exam…if you know what I mean."

Stifling an amused smirk, Illya lightly replied, "Perhaps if the physician first buys you dinner…?"

END OF CHAPTER 1


	2. Chapter 2

**THE PROTECTING THE PAST AFFAIR**

Chapter 2

"I would…hate having to promote someone else…today"

At that self-same moment, 43 years into their previous present, but 1964's still-distant future…

Darien Driscoll was decidedly inconsolable.

The man in the mask of metal, gems, and ivory, so triumphantly hiding a hideous half-face, just as one ruined hand was hidden via the black leather glove worn so worrisomely, could not easily accept a certain something that had recently taken place.

"How the hell can this be possible?" Darien ranted tyrannically within the opulent office situated six hundred meters below the surface far removed from prying eyes, save for two super-secret agents of U.N.C.L.E. who had used THRUSH's R.A.G.E. device to end up in the dimmed-by-decades past. "I risk my sanity…my health…to travel back in time and use a suitcase of explosives to kill Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo of that time-period…only to wind up facing down those same enemies before the entrance into U.N.C.L.E.! There can be only one to blame for such a shameful aftermath!"

Even as those summoned by the mask-wearing Darien Driscoll into his office inside the subterranean THRUSH headquarters far beneath the Nebraska soil shook with uncertainty as to who would wind up dead…

"Dr. Travis Raphael!"

Suddenly, those standing near said doctor swiftly stepped away from his fear-racked person. The horrified head tech of R.A.G.E….**R**etro-temporal **A**nti-**G**amma **E**mitting unit.

"N-no, Mr. D-Driscoll, s-sir!" stammered the scared-to-death individual who'd ostensibly been forced at Glock gunpoint to perform computerized programming maneuvers needed to send Illya Kuryakin and Napoleon Solo back as he had done with Darien. "I…I couldn't h-help it! Th-they were going to sh-shoot me!"

Glaring hard at the shaking, sweating, terrified tech via the single solitary eyehole located over that one good eye, Darien's transmitted-via-mask's-mini-speaker voice vociferously said, "And what do you think I will do to you, Doctor?"

"Nooooooo!"

**1964**

"Okay, you can stop, Mr. Solo," said Dr. Maxwell Fallon, an U.N.C.L.E.-employed medical doctor dressed in crisp shirt-and-tie as well as sharp white smock with an upside-down triangular badge clipped to it, color-coded for medical and emblazoned with the number "5".

Wearing a workout outfit, short-sleeved shirt and short, but not too short!, jogging togs, Napoleon Solo, perspiring profusely and very heavily breathing, stepped off the treadmill dreading what medical might dream up next in order to test his past-his-prime physicality.

"Thank God, Doc, I was beginning…to think…you were trying…to do what THRUSH hadn't…in over four decades! Whew!"

"Mm-hm," hummed Dr. Fallon while writing on the test-results form attached to a typical clipboard. "Mr. Kuryakin…?"

"Certainly, Doctor," readily replied Illya, dressed in a similar manner as Napoleon, who was currently trying to resume normal breathing and secretly cursing himself for having not completed proper physical training in that now-lost future time-period.

Then, with embarrassing ease, Illya Kuryakin completed the controlled treadmill test without heavy breathing or excessive sweating, causing Napoleon Solo to snidely snort, "Showoff."

While writing in regards to Illya's physical testing, consisting of the treadmill as well as several other such somatic exertions…

Napoleon couldn't help but secretly hope that such was most definitely the last of all actual exams, saying, "Well, Doc, since Illya and I didn't die of a heart attack, we must've passed."

"Yes," nodded Dr. Fallon while looking over all the written-down data, "for men your age…the two of you are ready for active agent duty. Especially you, Mr. Kuryakin."

Smirking in implacable pride, Illya answered proudly, "Thank you, Doctor. I do try."

Napoleon mimed a significantly sarcastic reaction and mockingly silent laugh, while slowly starting to exit so as to steam, shower, and dress, saying, "Okay, Doc…here's hoping I won't have to come this way again for the duration of my time in this time."

"Uh, Mr. Solo, just a moment, please," said Dr. Fallon before Napoleon Solo could slip away. "I'm afraid, for you, there's still one more examination."

"What do you mean, 'for you'? What about Illya?" sheepishly asked Napoleon, already fretting over what said examination might actually entail.

"Oh, Mr. Kuryakin has already had his," Dr. Maxwell Fallon explained as Illya smiled devilishly, "while you were still complaining about peeing in a cup."

"Have fun, Napoleon," quietly needled Illya Kuryakin even as Dr. Fallon slipped on a single latex glove.

"I'd really rather be facing down a dozen armed THRUSH drones right about now," Napoleon nervously lamented to himself even as he prepared to pull down his short-cut jogging togs for that type of examination.

**2007**

"I trust you shall not disappoint me," harshly said the menacingly masked Darien Driscoll as he visited the control room of the observation blister overlooking the miles-long super-subatomic accelerator powering R.A.G.E. "Dr. Mason Battaglia."

The rapidly promoted, in the wake of a quickly killed Dr. Travis Raphael, new tech-in-charge, gulped loudly and shakily said, "N-no, s-sir, Mr. D-Driscoll."

"How soon before I can be sent back to 1964?" asked the masked Darien Driscoll with little in his speaker-delivered voice to suggest a second disappointment would be at all acceptable.

"Uh," doubtfully fretted Dr. Battaglia, "l-less than three hours, s-sir."

Stepping a little too close via mask of metal, gems, and ivory, Darien threatened through its mini-speaker system, "See that it is less, Dr. Battaglia. I would dearly hate having to promote someone else in this section today."

Dr. Mason Battaglia, again, gulped loudly while timorously answering, "Y-yes, s-sir."

"Now," sneered the sinisterly masked master of THRUSH to no one in particular, while sweeping out of the observation blister's control room. "To find something I might change in 1964 to so disrupt the expected aspects of the present that those obnoxious men from U.N.C.L.E. will be utterly obliterated at long last."

END OF CHAPTER 2


	3. Chapter 3

**THE PROTECTING THE PAST AFFAIR**

Chapter 3

"Well, what d'ya know…the devil is in the details"

**1964**

**LONDON, ENGLAND**

Sir James Harold Wilson had just recently celebrated his rise to power as the Prime Minister of England when it happened.

"It" being the seemingly magical emergence of a mysteriously, menacingly masked man in the protected privacy of his politically-provided dwelling, at 10 Downing Street, with a very strange-looking, largely plastic, pistol in his singularly black gloved hand.

"Who the hell are you?" demanded the man meant to be Prime Minister not only in 1964, but to serve as such twice more. "And how the hell did you get in here? Speak up, man!"

Even the evil Darien Driscoll, sent back in time to that seemingly magical year and decade and physically sent to Merry Old England rather than New York City, wherein existed **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement, was especially impressed by this salt-and-pepper haired aristocrat-turned-politician.

Still, the self-named Master of THRUSH, **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity, had an important, to him, task to do…

"Sir Wilson," snarled Darien via his mask's mini-speaker system as a single solitary eyehole allowed that singular remaining eye to narrow forebodingly, "I'm afraid you won't be able to fully assume your position as Prime Minister. At least…not until we've taken a little trip to the United Kingdom's THRUSH headquarters. Though I do have very specific plans for you…such still wouldn't stop me from putting a bullet through that thoroughbred head should you resist."

Though more brave than the average middle-aged member of the Monarchy, Sir Harold Wilson still desired to stay alive, so…

"What exactly do you want with me?" insisted a still-resistive Sir Wilson. "And what the hell is…THRUSH?"

That last wasn't at all unanticipated by the masked man from the future, silencer-affixed Glock 18 still steady in its vague aim. After all, only those highest in the British bureaucracy, such as a post-election Prime Minister not a just-settling-into-office PM, were aware of the vilely evil super-secret organization.

Though such was well hidden by the mask of metal, gems, and ivory, the half-face of Darien Driscoll slowly and sinisterly half-smiled…

"It is where you, my British friend, shall undergo a proper 'reorganization' of your reasoning processes and your personal as well as professional loyalties. Heh, heh, heh, hehhhhh!"

**NEW YORK CITY**

Stepping out of the shower and dressing area of U.N.C.L.E. Medical, Napoleon Solo was met by a fast friend and fellow man from U.N.C.L.E….

"Well, my American friend," almost laughed Illya Kuryakin, long since showered and dressed in a Sixties-style suit as designer-like as possible for such a backward era, "the Rubber Finger Of Fate seems to not have hurt your overall ability to appear presumptuous in any century."

"Maybe you don't mind being 'violated' by a doctor with too-large digits, my Russian friend," said a sarcastically half-sneering Napoleon while still straightening his silken necktie, "but I prefer to remain…relatively untouched."

The two over-the-hill/out-of-time reactivated agents, still extremely handsome and suave by any time-period's principles, shared an instant of exceptionally close camaraderie due to decades of consistent service in a linear time not yet in established existence.

"While you were prettying yourself up," half-jokingly said Illya, but with a certain seriousness in his blue eyes and largely unlined-by-time countenance, "we were sent for by Mr. Waverly. It would appear…"

"That we have our first mission affair in the past?" Napoleon hopefully finished as his hazel eyes and slightly larger lined-by-time features formed a crooked grin.

"Yes," Illya said with a knowing nod as the two turned to head toward the antechamber area wherein sat a beauteous secretary/receptionist, thank God!, that awaited to allow them easy access into Alexander Waverly's singular state-of-the-art, for 1964, office suite. Then Illya added somewhat more contemplatively, "You know, Napoleon, now that we are 'trapped' in the past, it might make good sense to start referring to it as our present. As 'now', in other words."

"Don't worry, my blonde-headed buddy," Napoleon Solo said with an ingratiating grin, "by the time I've wooed a woman and had a single glass of single-malt whiskey…it'll feel like home."

Having gone through the ritualistic stop-at-the-outer office-desk-for-sexual-by-play-prior-to-the-entering-of-an-inner office, two secret agents, numbers "2" and "11", stepped past said blast-proof, super-dense door and…

"Have a seat, gentlemen," said Alexander Waverly while puffing on a pipe and sending a sweet aroma into the interior air.

Causing these two men from U.N.C.L.E. to mentally compare past and future taboos in direct relation to the 21st Century proscription against inside smoking.

Illya truly believed such to be a good idea, while Napoleon, no longer a smoker as he had been his first time through this time-period, actually liked this little island of true personal freedom.

"As you no doubt suspect," said Mr. Waverly with a little more personal concern than usual, "a situation has just arisen that I believe can only be successfully solved by the two of you. How much do you, uh, remember in regards to British statesmen of 1964?"

Napoleon, like always, kept quiet, being more a man of action than thought, while Illya readily rattled off what Mr. Waverly would logically come to consider as supremely important in regards to his respective birthplace.

"Sir James Harold Wilson was chosen by public election to assume the position of Prime Minister of England. An important political position, especially in respect to overall world view."

"Has something happened to Britain's newest Prime Minister?" Napoleon was quick to ask, suddenly serious. Though, in truth, the salt-and-pepper haired man from U.N.C.L.E. was simply more than a little eager to get started.

"Has he been assassinated?" anxiously asked Illya in regards to a rather important man, historically speaking, in relation to England as well as the overall folds in the tapestry of Time.

"No," swiftly said Alexander Waverly with a stiff shake of his head. "At least…not yet. Which is where you two come in. Now, if you will loan me your unmitigated attention for the next ten-to-twenty minutes…"

Having activated, via the solid pressing of the proper control button, so primitive in comparison to the touch-sensitive desktop squares such as the dearly departed, most especially in respects to Illya Kuryakin and his unrequited potential for Love, Allison Hall of said 21st Century…

…the wall directly to the rear of Waverly's seated position, on the opposite side of the circular desk of polished oak and stainless metal, slowly slid open to reveal that Sixties-style television screen from which would be visually displayed…

"Now, gentlemen," began Alexander Waverly with a scholastic intonation, "just in case you have forgotten more than you might realize in regards to this time-period, let us go over certain specific items of interest, shall we?"

Though such was expected, and appreciated, by Illya Kuryakin, Napoleon Solo sighed inwardly over yet another obstacle tossed in his overly eager path to agent action.

Though not at all loud enough to be understood by his Russian-born partner nor their British-born Number "1"…

"Well, what d'ya know…the devil is in the details."

END OF CHAPTER 3


	4. Chapter 4

**THE PROTECTING THE PAST AFFAIR**

Chapter 4

"Forty-five minutes is…better than forty-three years "

Having already landed at Heathrow Airport in the quad-prop plane secretly contracted by U.N.C.L.E. under an assumed semi-business for privatized purposes, carrying two older-than-normal covert operatives to quickly and quietly, if possible, liberate the held-against-his-will Sir James Harold Wilson…

Napoleon Solo, this time, sat at the steering wheel of the English rental, right-sided, due to the undeniable absence of GPS systems in the Sixties and, instead, still four decades distant. Illya Kuryakin, this time, would ride proverbial shotgun.

"Now this seems much more natural, Illya," said a smiling Napoleon while his Russian-born friend and partner opened a paper map, gleaned from the glove compartment of the car, in order to properly plot a precise path through London. "Me driving and you navigating. Better still, no high-tech 'toys' to complicate my private life. When we get back to New York, I'll go back to my old apartment and pick up right where I left off 43 years ago. Uh…I mean 'now'."

"Yes, well," bemoaned the man from U.N.C.L.E. with the blonde hair and blue eyes while looking over the unfolded road map in his lap, "I, for one, will unmistakably miss the personal computers, the DVD players, the internet, and definitely the satellite-accessed directions displayed on a screen instead of…this."

"I always believed you were spoiled by the 21st Century, Illya," playfully implied Napoleon with that customarily crooked grin on his still-handsome face. "By the way…better contact HQ and let them know we're alive and well and working our way toward THRUSH's UK location."

"I'm certainly glad to see that you are enjoying this primitive period, Napoleon," sarcastically said the Russian-born U.N.C.L.E. operative even as he pulled the special Cross pen from his suit's coat pocket, pressed up on the silvery ball of its clip which…

Caused the semi-expensive implement for writing to, in the space of a single swift millisecond, quickly convert its functionality from ink pen to pen communicator, which Illya casually lifted before his lips and…

"Open Channel-D. Open Channel-D."

"Channel-D open, Mr. Kuryakin, go ahead," said, via the speaker-microphone combo situated atop the 21st Century version of a very special design for the 20th, an emphatically feminine sonority via Section 5 of **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement.

From the corner of his eye, Illya couldn't help but be amused because of this second aged agent's sharpening sense of overwhelming merriment in direct relation to the clear-cut actuality that the whole world suddenly seemed a sexually simpler place.

Even if such did seem especially sexist to someone as uncommonly enlightened as Illya Kuryakin.

"We should be arriving at our predetermined destination, where THRUSH has its headquarters in the United Kingdom, in, uh, well…let's put it at around an hour-and-a-half. We'll, uh, contact you again after arriving just outside said secret HQ. Illya out."

Now pressing that self-same thumb's tip atop that self-same pocket clip, causing said pen communicator to almost instantly return to being an ordinary ink pen, which was promptly returned into his suit's coat pocket, as Illya glanced at a silently laughing Napoleon.

"I, uh, might need more time than you to reacquaint myself to this less precise point in Time."

"Whatever helps you get through this mission affair, my Russian friend," said the still-smirking Napoleon Solo as their rented car continued on toward downtown London from where they would gradually drive in the direction necessary for such as THRUSH's UK headquarters.

At least, where it was physically situated in this delicate decade.

Meantime, many kilometers from the current locality of the driven-by-Napoleon Solo sedan in which Illya Kuryakin continued turning a paper maps multicolored lines into orated directions for his fellow agent to follow…

…hidden behind some seemingly flaccid façade, posing as upscale public apartments, was none-other-than this side of the Atlantic's headquarters for the diabolically dangerous **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity.

Especially so now that the masked menace from the future, Darien Driscoll, had temporarily settled therein.

However, to attest to the tyrannical strengths of Darien, especially after personally assassinating Andrew Vulcan the last time he was in 1964, he had proverbially herded the thugs and scientific types together under one imaginary yoke.

Made much easier because of his recent apprehension of Sir James Harold Wilson.

Although the technological level of THRUSH in 1964 was nowhere near what it would be in decades to come, it was still significant so as to place the kidnapped Prime Minister in a specially designed soundproof chamber well within their HQ's multistory structure.

A chamber making use of several proven brainwashing procedures, some starting to use a certain amount of Sixties super-science, while the rest revolved around time-tested torture techniques.

And all under the anxious attention of a mysteriously masked man with a mien as monstrous as his twisted soul.

"Bring him around again," Darien Driscoll commanded from the room hidden behind a two-way mirror amidst dimmed illumination, by way of a handheld microphone broadcasting over less-than-outstanding, compared to 2007!, speakers, while the jumpsuit-and-bereted brutes prepared to repeat their rather barbaric actions.

Even as ice-cold water was tossed into the bloody, bruised bulldog facial features of Sir Wilson, strapped so securely to a bolted-to-the-floor chair, consciousness suddenly sweeping past a subconscious desire to remain largely oblivious…

"What? Where?" Sir Wilson at first said suddenly, until, several short seconds after, the answers were agonizingly clear. "No. Please. You must stop. Do you hear? You must stop!"

"Sorry, Sir Wilson," said the speaker-delivered voice of the masked man who'd kidnapped this new PM and cold-bloodedly killed British Secret Service stationed nearby the 10 Downing Street residence. "Until I am certain that you are a willing pawn of THRUSH…your 'reeducation' will continue. Proceed!"

"N-no. No!"

No sooner had such an utterance of terror and anger issued forth from the already badly beaten Prime Minister, than…

Krack! Thumpf!

"Ooof! Uhnn!"

…blows from gloved fists systematically impacted with fleshy face and well-fed body hard enough to continually torment the man, but not hard enough to cause serious injury.

"Enough!" Darien Driscoll called out via the microphone in his hand, while watching from the non-mirrored area of the two-way. "This is taking too long. Time to hook him up to the device."

"S-sir," nervously said the head English technician, Dr. James D. Duncan, dressed in a Sixties suit and starched smock, at the thought of using something still so experimental. "Th-though the hypno-programmer presents us with interesting results, it has not yet been proven anywhere near…"

"You either hook up the hypno-programmer to that beaten down bastard," snarled the masked Master of THRUSH in a thoroughly threatening tone, made all the more so via the mask's mini-speaker system. "Or, by the blood of Christ, I'll put you in there, Dr. Duncan. Are we clear?"

"Y-yes, s-sir, M-Mister D-Driscoll," Dr. Duncan said in ready reply of uncommon cowardice prior to turning toward his smock-wearing assistants. Then Dr. Duncan rowdily ordered, "Bring in the device. Ready it for sustained use. Quickly!"

As the lesser scientific types quickly complied with even less individual audacity, Dr. Duncan swallowed hard prior to reporting back to the masked man from the future…

"W-we'll be r-ready to employ the hypno-programmer in a p-perhaps forty-five more minutes, Mr. Driscoll, s-sir."

Suddenly understanding how the cybernetic-assisted, barely alive Andrew Vulcan in his recent past, in 2007, was so unreasonably restless. Darien heaved a very heavy sigh as he stared straight through the two-way once more at the battered, bruised, and bleeding British Prime Minister force-seated in the center of the semi-darkened room.

"Forty-five minutes," he whispered to himself inside the mask of metal, gems, and ivory, "is a lot better than forty-three years."

END OF CHAPTER 4


	5. Chapter 5

**THE PROTECTING THE PAST AFFAIR**

Chapter 5

"This…night belonged to…"

Having inevitably navigated through the downtown traffic of London, England, two men from U.N.C.L.E., decades older than originally so in 1964, from 43 years into a future Time…

"Take a left off Drury Lane onto Broad Court," instructed Illya Kuryakin while looking from paper map to extant surroundings as Napoleon Solo proceeded to take that turn.

"Go all the way to the end of Broad Court," continued Illya while folding, or at least trying, the low-tech item 1964 had forced the 21st Century secret agent to rely upon since initially landing, in a quad-prop plane, at a not quite completed Heathrow Airport. "We'll park the car there and walk to the apartment…uh, flats…building U.N.C.L.E. Intel stated was THRUSH's hidden headquarters."

"Sounds like a plan, my Russian friend," Napoleon Solo said with an excitement to both tone and facial affectation that clearly implied that this man from U.N.C.L.E. was genuinely glad to be back in the past. Back to the beginning.

But Illya couldn't help looking at Napoleon with a deeply puzzled expression, while sarcastically asking, "Is that all you have to say? Where's your usual smart-ass comment, my American friend?"

"Well," Napoleon heaved even as the English sedan he was driving proceeded down Broad Court at a steady, unsuspicious speed, "I was going to say something like 'Broad Court…I wouldn't mind being tried by broads', but I decided, somehow, it just sounded…nasty."

For the first time since assuming this first official mission since their return to the past, Illya brightened a bit, saying, "It would indeed seem, my dear Napoleon, that you have been suitably domesticated by the 21st Century. You would've never felt at all awkward at using such an extremely disparaging-to-women term before. There may yet be hope for you."

Before the still handsome, salt-and-pepper haired, hazel-eyed super-secret agent could come up with a clever comeback…

"We're here," Illya said gesturing straight ahead through the windshield, windscreen to the English!, adding, "park over there."

"Certainly Mr. Side-Seat Driver," quietly quipped Napoleon as he pulled into said position in the cul-de-sac end, even as Illya pulled out his extra-special Cross pen for one last pre-action communiqué prior to entering the pre-determined apartment, or flat, building.

Wherein, at that exact same moment, deep within said multistory structure secreted amongst a commonplace collection of buildings truly holding flats for person-occupation…

"Forget all your previous political loyalties, Sir Wilson," said the speaker-delivered voice of the masked Master of THRUSH, Darien Driscoll, via handheld microphone into the headphones-wearing, tightly restrained, Sir James Harold Wilson in the strangely experimental propagandizing device.

The device duly dubbed hypno-programmer.

Having already undergone a number of brutal beatings that inevitably led to periods of stupefaction, some for many minutes and some for scant seconds, Sir Wilson's stronger-than-expected will was, at last, starting to crack.

"M-my…l-loyalties…to…to…"

Finally, realized the extremely impatient man from a future time-period wearing a mask made of metal, gems, and ivory in order to permanently hide a hideous half-scarred countenance, Sir Wilson was losing his limpidity.

"Excellent, Doctor," said a half-smiling-inside-the-mask Darien to Dr. James D. Duncan, the head tech assigned to this English variant of the evil **T**echnological **H**ierarchy for the **R**emoval of **U**ndesirables and the **S**ubjugation of **H**umanity. "The device does indeed seem to be working perfectly. Soon Sir Wilson's will shall truly belong to us. Thus shall we set into motion something that should so alter my time-period that, just maybe, my eternal enemies, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin will completely cease to exist. Ha, hahahaha!"

However, even as such was taking place deep inside said UK headquarters for THRUSH…

"Once we enter," said the Russian-born aged agent to his equally old American-born partner and friend prior to stepping through the front doors of this faux flats building adjacent to Broad Street…

"We'll be in 'battle mode'?" Napoleon Solo questioningly completed with a smirking smile of rising excitement. "I wouldn't have it any other way, my friend."

It was then that both pulled their Glock 18s from hidden-under-coats shoulder holsters, then, from their attachment packs on the anchoring strap situated about their opposite shoulders, two silencers were pulled to magnetically attach onto the business ends of those partially plastic pistols.

Total time taken: 4.92 seconds.

"Let's do this," simultaneously said two smiling septuagenarians as violent intent was about to become fatalistic action.

Soon these two men from U.N.C.L.E., so hated by a half-faced Darien Driscoll, would use silencer-equipped Glocks to kill any and all THRUSH operatives, especially those dressed in standard jumpsuits-and-berets carrying augmented M-1 carbines touting night-vision sniper scopes…

Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft!

The aforementioned masked Master of THRUSH was quite literally on the brink of brainwashing the beaten and bleeding British Prime Minister via the overly elaborate audio-visual device provisionally called a hypno-programmer.

"Once again, Sir Wilson," sinisterly said Darien via handheld microphone while hidden behind the two-way mirror looking out into the semi-darkened room wherein Sir James Harold Wilson had been unbelievably battered by jumpsuit-and-bereted brutes still standing at its shadowy edges. "What will you do upon your first official presentation to Parliament as Prime Minister?"

"I…will…wear…," struggled a still-resistive recently-elected PM, not at all fully reprogrammed, mentally, by the devious device invariably force-feeding mind-altering auditory sounds and illusory images meant to twist his sensibilities inside-out. "…a…bomb…that…that…"

"Stop resisting, Mr. Prime Minister," snarled a restless past-and-future supreme ruler over all that was THRUSH. "You will wear a bomb into a full Parliament and explode it. Killing them all. Say it!"

While Sir Wilson struggled with every erg of will still extant within his head, heart, and especially his soul…

Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft!

Two out-of-retirement/out-of-Time U.N.C.L.E. super-spies, firing 9mm Parabellum bullets from drastically different handguns that such as they had originally carried their first time of actual life in the Sixties, were, at that exact instant, near the entrance to the torturous room within the faked flats building in London, England…

"I think this is it, Illya," Napoleon Solo said in certitude having arrived after firing their silenced Glocks at those THRUSH thugs standing between them and their target.

"Yes," Illya added, "assuming, of course, the information we forcefully extracted from that technician is at all accurate."

"Only one way to find out," Napoleon proffered before quite literally kicking in the locked door with one expensively-shoed, as expensive as was available in the Sixties!, foot.

Before even one THRUSH thug could grab nearby converted carbines in order to kill these two intruders…

Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft!

Multiple Thuds! resounded in the surrounding semi-darkness, even as Sir Wilson was literally teetering on the jagged edge of a psychological chasm, then…

"No! Not them! Not now!"

Even as such was angrily growled by the mini-speaker system of Darien's mask of metal, gems, and ivory…

Two silencer-affixed Glock 18s had been quickly reloaded via the expert ejection of clips while just as swiftly slapping in two more…

Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft! Pft!

After an authentic hail of bullets pierced the easily-shattered two-way mirror, killing all on the opposite side…

Save one.

"Dammit!" Napoleon Solo semi-swore the instant he and Illya looked inside and saw what they wished not to see.

"Darien Driscoll's not there," Illya Kuryakin commented in an anticipative tone and affectation. "That means only one thing."

Nodding deeply, as he and Illya reloaded in preparation for fighting their way out again, Napoleon promptly completed his Russian-born partner's explanation, "Our half-faced THRUSH chieftain has evidently developed a small 'recall' device so he can return to 2007 anytime there's trouble! Hope he pukes twice as hard returning as we all did upon appearing in the Sixties. Bastard."

Having very rapidly freed Sir James Harold Wilson from the strange apparatus and benumbing metal chair…

"Let's get out of here, Napoleon," insisted Illya, neither now needing the magnetically-attached silencer extension since such soundless shooting was unnecessary on their equally violent evasion. "We mustn't be cornered by carbine-carrying THRUSH 'soldiers'."

"Right with you, Illya," heavily heaved a still disappointed Napoleon, helping Illya lead Sir Wilson out. "Let's go, Sir Wilson. We need to get you into a hospital. You still have a lively political career ahead of you."

**2007**

Having already removed his mask in order to regurgitate via the physical ramifications of rapid-return time-travel…

A once again hidden behind a mask of metal, gems, and ivory tyrannical leader of THRUSH spewed words of rage.

"They cannot keep beating me! They must die! They must cease to exist! Removing them completely from the time-stream would liberate me from my hidden hideousness!"

Attempting to appease the less-than-sane chief of THRUSH, Dr. Mason Fallon foolishly proffered, "We can take some solace in the presumption that you can revisit 1964 as many times as it takes to succeed, sir."

Determinedly turning that single eye-within-single eyehole in the direction of the recently-promoted-by-Darien head tech, the masked menace snatched an MP7 A1 machinegun-capable assault weapon from the closest standing THRUSH thug…

Brrrrr-rrraaaattttaaaa-ratata-brraatt!

"You, my good dead Dr. Fallon," snarled the mini-speaker delivered voice of the sinister Master of THRUSH, while handing back the still-smoking automatic-semiautomatic firearm, "have just been retired."

**1964**

"Congratulations, gentlemen," said the pipe-smoking Alexander Waverly from his side of the oak-and-metal escritoire dominating this innermost office suite of the New York **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement. "You foiled THRUSH's diabolical plans to brainwash the Prime Minister of England. Well done."

"Thank you, sir," said Illya Kuryakin almost passionlessly. "Shall we prepare ourselves for a non-THRUSH threat to…?"

"I've got a better idea, sir," quickly interjected the agent with the hazel eyes and salt-and-pepper hair. "Why not give Illya and I some downtime so we can 'reacquaint' ourselves with our new life in the Sixties?"

In a brief-but-hushed aside, Illya smilingly said, "Come now, Napoleon, what you wish to 'reacquaint' yourself with are the willing women of this less-complex period. Especially those listed in that little black book no doubt waiting at your apartment."

"Shhh!"

"Hm," hummed Mr. Waverly while seriously considering Napoleon Solo's duplicitous suggestion. "Very well, gentlemen. Enjoy the rest of the day. Report to me first thing in the morning for any new threats too potentially troublesome for ordinary operatives."

"Thank you, Mr. Waverly," said a half-smirking Napoleon while swiftly standing so as to exit and reestablish himself as a successful Ladies Man, as a still amused Illya also prepared to re-experience the Sixties lifestyle.

Just as the explosion-resistive double-dense door gradually began to open up…

"Try not to break too many female hearts, Mr. Solo," suddenly said Alexander Waverly in a deadpan demeanor while still looking over the variegation of important paperwork neatly littering his circular desktop. "At least leave something for the next time out."

Even as, for the first time in far too many years, Napoleon's face flushed fully, Illya, more amused now than a few seconds before, finally said with a spreading smirk, "With a poker face like that, Napoleon, you and I simply must play a few hands."

Suddenly stumped for a smart-aleck repartee, Napoleon made a mental note to needle Illya later.

For this quickly coming night belonged to an older lothario than had originally jumped into the jet-set scene.

Look out, ladies, thought this warmhearted womanizer with a self-ingratiating grin, Napoleon Solo is back with all new "tricks" from the future.

END


	6. Chapter 6

**SPECIAL EPILOGUE**

**1964**

**U.N.C.L.E. MEDICAL SUMMARY AFTER PHYSICAL EXAMINATIONS OF:**

**NAPOLEON SOLO and ILLYA KURYAKIN**

Though they were quite clearly in their seventies, their extensive standard tests, running the range from basic blood work to physically active testing to certain examinations just short of invasive, the proceeding prognosis has been agreeably gleaned by all of U.N.C.L.E. Medical:

Somehow, because of Napoleon Solo's and Illya Kuryakin's trip back in Time, their overall maturation process has, impossibly, been stopped.

As apparently illogical and completely improbable as such seems, Napoleon Solo and Illya Kuryakin, due to said "trans-time" trek, have evidently had their precise physicality essentially "frozen" at their current stage of aging.

Though there would have to be considerable in-depth psychological testing to ascertain their mental faculties, it is believed that they, too, have very probably been "frozen" at the neurological level they had naturally achieved prior to returning to 1964 from 2007.

As exceptionally strange as all this is, there are absolutely no obtained-via-tests indications that these two aged, but not aging, agents should not proceed with mission affairs.

Though this has the highest secrecy level available within the **U**nited **N**etwork **C**ommand for **L**aw and **E**nforcement, it is hereby believed that further physical examination and testing might one day yield some "serum" by which to stop the potential for physical and mental aging within the normal human community.

So long as such did not adversely interfere or interrupt regular agent activities.


End file.
